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The Ground

The Ground

I'd kill to be anything
that could reach
beyond this earth
Given divinity…
while hell
is all it's worth
I'm the ground,
I've found…
as all are lookin' down
But to see them I have to look
upon the sky

And so I feel…
the name of a wise man
scrawled upon
my back
He thought he was wise,
but I remembered…
that time remembers
in spite of
we lack

Cemented names,
on my back
are nothing but
a time…
and a sweet and
lonely fact
that all we'd do
is anything
to get
a bit
of our time back

"This might as well
be hell", I'd yell,
but my voice
would only

Now I feel…
the cane of a blind man
upon my skin
And still while being
by him
(and many other men),
I thought I'd rather
be myself
than to ever
be like them
I thought I'd rather
be myself
than to have to be like him

"This might as well
be hell", I'd yell,
no one's listening

on the corner
of my one
undying eye
All except its flames
would ever truly die
now there's gas upon that corner
worth more than
you and I
It's sold on every corner
'til the day we have
to die

And I'm
just the ground,
I've found
And tomorrow's
just a time
I see an old day
in the corner
of my eye
I'm stepped upon,
spit upon,
dawned upon,
and drawn…
But that's never really changed
who I'm really meant
to be
So with gum upon my shoulder
and ash
upon my mind;
I know that I'm much older,
but I'm
a victim of our time

I'm the ground, they say but me…
I call me "me"

alleyway, boulevard,
the dirt beneath our feet
Thrown upon
this cul-de-sac
Thrown upon
this place
A cigarette,
some ash,
some trash upon my face

I'm the ground,
I've found,
but this might as well be hell
I would tell ya what
I've seen,
but one can never tell
I'm an alabaster bastard,
marble in my bones
Marble in my stones
playin with my wits
marble in their homes
upon my skin
Sanity akin…
to losing games
we never thought
we'd ever truly win

"This might as well be hell",
he'd yell---
a child only ten

Let me lose
or let me win,
but please
let it end
I'm the ground,
he'd pound…
in vain upon my skin
Litter me, literally,
as he overturned some bin
Woken up,
an indigent
swathed upon his gin
No chalk upon my walk
No outlines… but again

This might as well be hell
as far as
anyone can tell

strewed upon
my curb, upon my skin
Disturbed by all his gin,
slurred, he said
"This might as well be hell",
but none
were listening

I'm the ground,
he's found
his eyes
upon my street

alleyway, boulevard,
the dirt beneath his feet

But never did he look
at me
deigned or with disgust
We only looked
upon the sky,
as none
were low as us

And so we feel…
the name
of a wise man…
scrawled upon
our back
will time remember
all of us…
in spite of
we lack?